


Helmet

by midnighteverlark



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Accidental Baby Yoda Acquisition, Baby Yoda's POV, Child POV, Din Djarin - Freeform, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Found Family, Implied/Referenced Past Child Neglect/Abuse, This Is The Way, father-son bonding, mainly follows canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:27:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22314040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnighteverlark/pseuds/midnighteverlark
Summary: Safe, the whisper of energy says, unmistakably. Despite the blaster in the man’s other hand, despite the foreignness of the metal sculpted over his head, despite the fact that the Child is sure he’s never seen this creature before. That ever-present energy swirls tranquilly around them, between them, and it hums in a way that means, safe. Guardian. Friend.And it has never told the Child anything that wasn’t true.-_-_-The Child is just a baby, but he observes and understands more than most people around him assume. Mainly ignored, partly shoved around this way and that by his latest captors who would use him for his incredible Force sensitivity, the Child just wants to feel safe. Loved. Taken care of. Thankfully, the Force has an uncanny way of bringing together people who need each other.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 233





	1. Episode One: The Mandalorian

**Author's Note:**

> What the hell am I doing in this fandom, writing stuff that isn't Stranger Things? IDK man, I binged The Mandalorian in like 2.5 days and now I'm hooked.

They keep him in a dim, stuffy building, and if he’s good, sometimes he’s allowed to get out of his pod and shuffle around the dirt floor, finding interesting things to pick up and turn over in his hands and sharpen his teeth on. Gritty brownish-reddish rocks, and frayed nets - he got tangled up in one, once, and got in trouble for his panicked cries, so he doesn’t go near those anymore - and, if he’s lucky, fast little beetles that _zip_ out of his reach so fast it makes him giggle. He knows better than to get too close to the doors, though, even when the beetles do. No going outside without his pod. It’s a rule.

He’s leaning forward in his pod, eyeing Osta - the one who’s within sight most often, who gives him food and takes him in and out of his pod - hoping he’ll be allowed to explore today. And that’s when the noises start.

The Child knows these noises. He is not unaccustomed to the _zing_ of a shot, followed closely by a ground-shaking, ear-shaking _crack-boom_ that trembles in the tiny hairs inside his ears. Still, that first barrage makes him squeak and jolt, ears pulling back and wide eyes turning towards the source.

Osta jumps up and dashes through the doors. Outside there’s shouting, grunting, and within moments Osta comes charging back and hastily shoves the Child way back into his pod - 

(“Keep quiet,” he hisses, in the way that warns of punishments - long hungry nights and pulled ears and endless hours in the dark.)

\- throwing his blanket over his face for good measure, and the pod snaps shut. Locking him away in the oh-so-familiar dark, where he can only tremble and listen, uncertain.

The Child is quiet. And so is everything else. Maybe it’s over? Usually, crashing and yelling like that only lasts a few moments before it’s quiet again - but quiet in a bad way. Quiet in the way where he’s not supposed to fuss, even when his watchers jostle his pod around harshly as they run, even when the pod opens again and he’s somewhere else - another whole new place that he only ever catches glimpses of before he’s shut away indoors again.

But this time, after that long pause, the noises start again. Louder and closer than ever. And that ever-present whispering energy starts wriggling and twisting and shivering the way it does when there’s real danger nearby, and the Child’s uncertainty mounts to distress. 

He feels little tremors as his watchers blink out of existence one by one in a succession of loud noises that hurt his ears, though the pod helps muffle it a little. And still the noises don’t stop, and it’s so _loud_ , and inside the inky-black of his pod, he reaches up and folds his ears down over his skull with his hands, trying to shut out the noise.

Something _big_ strikes the building he’s in, rapid-fire, _boomboomboomboom._ Ground shaking, pod shaking, the dull-crackle sound of walls crumbling. More shouting, more little _blips_ in the world, in the air, inside his head, as the fighters outside blink away, and then all at once it’s quiet again.

Sparks. Blaster shots bouncing off of metal. Pops and _bangs_ like the fizzling fireworks the Child has a vague, distant memory of. A creak, a _clang_ . Even inside his pod, the Child can smell smoke - sharp, acrid, metallic, stinging his eyes. He sniffles, almost coughs, but he knows he’s not allowed to make noise. He’s not supposed to whimper, even though that fire-smell stings in his throat and chest and makes his eyes water. He shuts his eyes. His heart _boomboomboom_ s just like the building.

Footsteps near his pod as Osta charges past - then grunts, and suddenly Osta’s Presence is gone too.

He’s scared. That’s never happened before. 

Loud, scary things like this have happened, yes, and people have _blipped_ away into thin air, disappearing from the world to he-doesn’t-know-where, but there’s always been somebody left afterwards to jerk his pod onto a ship and shoot off across space somewhere else. But now, just like that, all the familiar Presences are gone. He’s alone. Except -

“Anyone else?” 

That’s a new voice. It’s a voice he’s never heard before, and the Child grips his blanket anxiously, because new voices never mean anything good. Either he’s shut away in his pod until they’re gone, or it means more running, more yelling, more big hands grabbing him. 

“The tracking fob is still active,” says another voice. “My sensors indicate there is a life form present.” 

Two voices, but he can only feel one Presence approaching his pod. 

The Child knows about this. It means the second voice is a droid. A metal person. Several hide-camps ago, he had a droid that stayed near him and fed him moss chips and whistled cheerfully at him. He loved that droid. It was rusted and sometimes its wheels got caught on something and it would fall over, beeping forlornly. And the Child would have to wait for somebody to come set it upright again, because he knew he wasn’t allowed to make it float back upright unless he was told to. 

But the droid never shoved him back into his pod when he leaned too far out. The droid never yanked on his ear if he was too loud, or held up treats only to take them away when the Child reached for them. 

He couldn’t help from crying when a blaster punched a hole clean through it, during one of those loud-scary times, and his continued wails had earned him a smack on the head and a long, long night shut away in the dark of the pod, with nothing to look at and nothing to do except cry and wish his droid friend would come back.

This droid, the Child senses, is not like that droid. 

A warbling kind of beep draws closer - as does the last remaining Presence that the Child can sense.

The pod springs open. Light blinding him, the last of that acrid smoke drifting out into the air. The Child peeks over his blanket, afraid but curious. He doesn’t usually get to look out at what’s going on - not right after a loud time like that.

At first he’s confused. Two droids? Then he senses it. One droid - tall, spindly, red-eyed - and one man. Shiny head, shiny shoulder, armor all over. Like his watchers’ armor. A dark, tattered cape hangs behind him.

“Wait,” says the man. “They said fifty years old.”

The man cocks his head - no, his, what is it called? When someone wears a big, hard hat over their head. Helmet. The Child’s watchers didn’t wear helmets. They had small, stumpy horns curving up from their foreheads and down from their chins. The helmet has no horns.

The helmet cocks to the side as he looks at the Child, studying him, considering. The Child expects malice in that expressionless gaze, but senses none. He studies Helmet back.

“Species age differently,” says the droid that is not gentle or round like the Child’s old friend-droid. “Perhaps it could live many centuries.” 

The Child thinks they’re talking about him. They’re both looking at him, standing over his pod. And he’s heard those words before, directed at him. _Species. Age._

He can’t see very well, so he reaches up one hand and pushes down the fold of the rough brown blanket. Worried. Lower lip trembling. He whimpers, ever so slightly, before remembering that he’s supposed to be quiet. 

“Sadly,” says the droid, “We’ll never know.”

A horrible thing happens. The droid’s arm lifts. And the Child flinches, ears pulling down over his skull again, eyes squinting. Because he _knows_ what that blaster does. Those blasters that sound so loud, burn so bright in his eyes. They make people go away, forever, and not come back. Like his droid-friend. And he knows they _hurt_ \- he knows that. He’s heard the yells of anger-pain-fear when one of those bright-burning bolts hits someone. They must hurt _bad_ if they make people go-away-for-always. 

But in the same moment, the man’s arm shoots out - and he stops the droid. 

“No,” he says. “We’ll bring it in alive.” 

_We. Bring. Alive._ Familiar words. Good words. _Alive_ is a good word. It means not-gone-forever. And _bring_ \- that means going somewhere. So, maybe this isn’t so different from always, after all. Maybe they are just leaving the hide-camp after all that noise, like every other time.

“The commission was quite specific,” the droid says, “The asset was to be terminated.”

This is harder. But, _asset_ \- he recognizes that one. That’s him. He’s heard that word spoken before, often just before or after his watchers told him it was time to practice.

_Here. Here’s this rock. You like this rock? You can have it if you bring it over. Not with your hands. Go on, you know what to do. Show everyone what you can do._

The blaster lifts again and this time the man doesn’t stop it, and the Child stares at the end of that loud blaster with his belly aching, but he’s good and he does not cry because he was told to be quiet.

A flash of brilliant red, and those trembling wordless whispers of _danger danger danger_ ease, and then disappear completely. The droid has collapsed in a metallic _crunch_. Helmet took the droid away. Gone-for-good. No more blaster pointed straight between the child’s wide, blinking eyes.

And here is another first.

Helmet’s hand is lifting towards him. Slowly. Curiously. With no ill intent shivering in the wake of the action. 

The whisper of invisible energy around that hand is warm.

For about as long as the Child can remember, hands have meant _rough,_ meant _grabbing_ and _shoving_ , always pulling him up by the back of his robes and dropping him in his pod, or pulling him this way or that, or yanking on an ear if he’s not good, or dousing him and his robe with a shock of water for a cursory bath. So when the man in the pretty-shiny helmet reaches out a gloved hand, and the Child feels only curiosity and gentleness from him, the Child reaches back. His small claws catch ahold of the offered finger, and he can feel the warmth of skin under the cloth. 

And just like that, he knows who this person is - he can _feel_ it, the way he can _feel_ that his watchers are gone-for-good. In that split second before the glove pulls away again, he gets smudged flashes of things he does and doesn’t recognize. 

A hard coldness, like a shell. Weariness. Surprise. Curiosity. Loneliness - the Child recognizes that one immediately. 

_Safe,_ the whisper of energy says, unmistakably. Despite the blaster in the man’s other hand, despite the foreignness of the metal sculpted over his head, despite the fact that the Child is sure he’s never seen this creature before. That ever-present energy swirls tranquilly around them, between them, and it hums in a way that means, _safe. Guardian. Friend._

And it has never told the Child anything that wasn’t true.


	2. Episode Two: The Child - Part One

Rough, hot, gritty air. Ripples of sandy stone, carved into ribbons and whirls by the wind. The sun stabs down in hot, diagonal patches through the intermittent gaps above.

_ Splat, splat, splat _ go Helmet’s heavy boots in the thin layer of mud.

_ Pat pat pat pat pat pat pat  _ go the lizards’ feet as they dart out of the way, quick and fearful and fascinating. The Child watches them steadily, sitting forward in his pod, ears perked to pick up the dry rustle of their feet on the dirt. The gritty air pushes past his ears in fits and starts, hot but fresh, not stuffy. It feels nice. He pats his hands on the lip of his pod, happy, quickly forgetting his earlier scare. The lizards squeak and trill, and the Child almost squeaks back - until he remembers that he’s outside, and not supposed to be noisy. Those are the rules.

Except, Helmet doesn’t seem to care about the rules.

Helmet hasn’t closed the pod. It’s strange. It’s been a long time since the Child was allowed outside without the pod closed. 

All at once - no more lizards. They scurry away all together and then they’re gone, and Helmet stops. Something has shifted - a different current in the flow of energy - and the Child looks up at Helmet. But Helmet is looking up, too, up at that too-bright-hurts-to-look-at sky beyond the rumpled stone. Still. Alert. Watchful. Not scared. The Child’s watchers were often scared, in the sour-tense-stomach-hurting way that rippled through the space around them. But Helmet only lifts a glove to his blaster and watches, so the Child watches too. 

It happens so fast that by the time the Child turns around, it’s already over. A roar, a flash of movement, a clatter of metal - someone fell down from the sky! Helmet shoves the pod out of the way and it sails backwards. The Child falls over with a peep.

_ Clang, clang, clang! _ It’s a battle. Two more fighters appear by the time the Child rights himself - blurs of brown and clay-red and black, lunging and grunting. Helmet is identifiable by the bright chrome of his head and shoulder. He’s surrounded and the Child wonders if he should be scared, wonders what’s going on, but it’s too exciting to hide behind his blanket. He never gets to see things like this. Sparks fizzle in the canyon shadows and someone goes flying back -

And then it’s not fun anymore because the last one is running straight at the Child, stick-weapon raised -

And then he’s gone.  _ Blip. _ Loud  _ zing, _ burst of dancing sparks like the Child remembers seeing above a fire once. Did Helmet do that? 

In the echoing quiet, a soft  _ beep beep beep _ mixes with Helmet’s heavy breaths. A small, blinking device. Helmet steps forward, his own stick-weapon in hand, and grinds the beeping under his boot with a satisfying crunch. It stops.

* * *

Hours have passed and the Child is getting hungry. But they’re travelling, and he knows there’s not always time to eat when it’s travel-time. They have to get where they’re going, first. He hopes it’s not far.

It’s also getting cold. The Child doesn’t like the cold. It hurts his ears and makes his nose run. Normally he would start being grumpy right about now - hungry, cold, and he wants attention - but everything is still much too interesting. Maybe later he’ll start working up a fuss. For now he’s watching the sky turn a rainbow of soft colors.

Or, he was. But he keeps getting distracted by Helmet’s shivers of pain.

His arm is hurt. It got hurt during the fight, and now he’s trying to fix it, but he’s not doing a very good job. He grunts, sighs, mutters, starts all over again. 

Helmet doesn’t talk much, so this is new. This muttering. The Child stretches, wishing he could get out and walk around, and keeps a hopeful eye on him. Helmet hasn’t closed his pod all day, even though he’s not supposed to be outside with it open. Maybe that rule doesn’t matter anymore.

Maybe...  _ any _ rule doesn’t matter anymore?

It’s too good to hope for.

But maybe...

Helmet shifts, pausing for a moment before holding up the tool to his arm again.

Helmet never actually told him to stay in the pod. 

At first, Helmet doesn’t notice. He’s too busy trying to fix his arm, twitching with a spark of pain that the Child feels an echo of. He only notices when the Child is right next to him, shuffling timidly to his knee and lifting one hand.

_ Hi Helmet. Don’t be mad. Can I help? _

He knows how to help. He’s a good helper.

And he  _ almost _ has it, too, it’s  _ right _ within his reach - 

And Helmet pushes his hand down with his own enormous glove and scoops him back into the pod,  _ whoosh. _ Which was fun, for a second - he likes being carried - but it wasn’t what he wanted. 

He’s frustrated, for a moment, and then he realizes: Helmet wasn’t even mad. He got out of the pod by himself and Helmet wasn’t even mad.

All right, then.

While Helmet is distracted, focused on making sparks with the metal thing he took off of his clothes, the Child hefts himself over the edge once more. He’s trying to be sneaky, like the quick little lizards, but Helmet sees him and picks him up again with a sigh. 

Back in the pod.

The Child gurgles, quietly, and the silhouette above him watches him for a moment. Maybe he’ll say something?

But instead, for the first time, Helmet pushes a button on his arm and the pod folds closed. The Child sits back with a huff. He doesn’t  _ want _ the pod closed.

But it’s warmer in here, without the cool wind chilling the tips of his ears, and it smells safe and familiar, and he can tell that Helmet is still close by. He falls asleep before he can fuss at all.

* * *

Helmet  _ really _ doesn’t like the people in brown robes.

From here they look as small as the lizards, swarming around the two buildings down below. Are they buildings? They might be the type of building that moves. Sips?

Ships. That’s it.

There’s a blocky brownish one and a round-ish shiny one - shiny like Helmet’s head. It’s hard to see from all the way up here, but it looks like the brown-robes are taking things. Running around with their hands full. It looks fun; the Child wants to join in. Why don’t they go down there? Are the brown-robes scary?

Sharp  _ zing _ from Helmet’s stick-weapon - not a blaster, quite - and one of the brown-robes  _ poof _ s into a cloud of sparks. The Child leans forward, curious, excited. So the brown-robes are bad guys, just like the fighters in the canyon! Is the shiny ship Helmet’s? Is that why he’s so grumpy-concentrated, hunkered down over his stick - because they’re taking away his things? The Child understands how that feels. He’s had treats taken away from him before. Only, he’s never been able to  _ poof _ the people that took them.

Another  _ zing-poof _ , and now the mean brown-robes are scurrying and shrieking, running to the blocky brown ship with flailing arms. 

The big ship rolls away all at once, every brown-robe disappearing inside it, and Helmet lunges to his feet and takes off down the slope. The pod  _ jolts _ as it starts after him, tugged along a few feet behind, and the Child gurgles. This is fun - it’s a chase! Like chasing the beetles back in the hide-camp, except that Helmet is much faster than him.

They stop, which is disappointing, but Helmet only kneels for a moment and aims a shot at the back of the ship (spray of golden sparks) before running again. Faster than ever - fast enough to catch up with the ship, and the wind flutters the Child’s ears and fills his mouth as he giggles. Helmet may not talk much, but he’s  _ so _ much more interesting than the Child’s last watchers. He hasn’t been bored since yesterday!

Helmet has jumped up and grabbed onto the ship, and now he’s climbing. 

Brown-robes chattering to each other, red eyes gleaming from the depths of their hoods, leaning out of the side of the ship. The Child’s pod sails through the dust, keeping pace with the ship, grit getting in his mouth when he gasps - the ship is leaning against a rock, it’s going to squish Helmet right off - 

But just like that they’re past the big rock, and Helmet is still there, not squished at all. Still climbing, even though the brown-robes throw bits and pieces of things at him. The Child doesn’t need to get any closer to tell that Helmet is mad, and the Child grips the edge of his pod as it sweeps over the dusty, hot ground. This was fun, but now his stomach is going a little wobbly with all the swooping-turning-speeding, and it doesn’t look like Helmet is winning anymore. Especially when he finally gets to the top - and the brown-robes shoot blue crackles at him. He goes hurt-blurry and drops from the ship, down, down, down, until he hits the ground.

The pod drifts to a stop.

Helmet is hurt-blurry for a long time. Long enough that the pod starts to get hot and dusty in the sun, but the Child doesn’t want to get out by himself. Not with Helmet asleep. The big brown ship is gone, and without it, the only noise is the wind. It’s a little scary. Too scary to get down out of his pod, even if it is hot and dusty, and even if he does see a couple beetles he could eat. The Child watches Helmet. He’ll get up, right? Helmet always gets up.

And he does. All at once the shiny head lifts, and the Child perks up as Helmet groans, getting up with some stiff-sore pain sounds. He looks at the tracks, where the ship went. He looks at the Child. Something unexpected: a flicker of relief, of warmth, like cloth fluttering in the wind. Helmet saying  _ hello, I’m happy to see you, _ without saying it. The Child perks up his ears, to show that he understands.

* * *

Helmet’s shiny ship is broken. It makes him sad. He bangs around inside for a little while, flashes of  _ mad-frustrated _ breaking through every once in a while, but then it goes quiet again and he’s back to sad.

He left the pod outside, and the Child is getting lonely. He clambers out and wanders up the ramp, waving his arms a little when it’s hard to balance on the inclined surface. He gives a small chirp when he finds Helmet sitting down inside the broken-smoky ship. Helmet sighs - it’s his favorite thing to do - and picks him up at arm’s-length. The Child thinks maybe he’s getting a ride, and kicks his feet with a gurgle -  _ whee! _ \- but then he’s back in the pod. Again.

_ Oh. _

The Child sits back with a sigh of his own. He doesn’t want to sit in the pod, he wants to be carried.

Helmet starts off into the desert, and the pod floats along at his side.

Chasing the brown-robes was fun. Maybe they could try that again. Or they could eat something. He’s getting  _ very _ hungry. Maybe he should cry. Sometimes he has to wait a long time for food, but today has been  _ hard _ , and he wants attention. But Helmet is sad, too, and hurt-tired, and he still hasn’t yelled or been mean. Helmet is good. The Child can tell. And he doesn’t want to make him upset, the way that grown-ups get upset when he cries.

So, instead, he pulls his blanket over his ears and naps as the pod drifts along, open, through the blue-purple evening-time.

* * *

So  _ that’s _ why they had to walk for so long. All this time, Helmet was just going to find food! Smart Helmet. These frogs are much slower than the lizards, and now that the sun went down, the sand isn’t too hot to walk on anymore. The Child shuffles after the frogs with reaching hands, ready to grab. They may be slower than the quick-darting lizards, but they still hop around on their long legs, and he hasn’t caught one yet.

The grown-ups are talking. Helmet and another - a grown-up that’s shorter than Helmet, with big white eyebrows and a leathery face. His words are rough, but the energy around him is kind. The Child isn’t worried about him. He and Helmet are friends. And, really, he’s not paying much attention to the grown ups. He’s too interested in his soon-to-be-food.

Helmet pauses for a moment, turning to the Child, his own energy giving a little  _ just-checking _ flicker. He starts talking again as the child flings himself down on a slimy-cold frog.  _ Got you! _

“Hey,” Helmet snaps as the Child stuffs the frog into his mouth, but there’s no real threat in his voice. “Spit that out.”

Why? It’s good. The Child swallows it, and the  _ empty-cold-hungry  _ feeling in his belly is fixed just like that. Helmet just shakes his head as the Child laughs, happy that he’s not hungry anymore, and then burps, and then laughs at that too. 

It’s strange. The Child used to get in trouble when he did something he wasn’t supposed to. But Helmet didn’t seem to mind. Maybe the Child was right; maybe the rules _ are _ different with Helmet. Maybe none of the old rules matter anymore. Maybe Helmet really is different from the Child’s other watchers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels so weird to me to be posting short-ish (~2,000 word) chapters instead of huge 10K word ones...   
> But anyway, yay the kid finally got something to eat! Seriously, Mando doesn't feed him for like three days. Dad Instincts on point, but Dad Skills need some work. He'll get there, don't worry.  
> I'd love to hear your thoughts!


End file.
